


Iahneferu

by TiaLewise



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, Angstshipping - Freeform, Bittersweet Ending, Citronshipping, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Outcastshipping, Rewrite of a previous work, When in doubt rob a tomb and get shitfaced off of the pharaoh's wine, then give the finger to Ra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaLewise/pseuds/TiaLewise
Summary: The maiden wanders the desert, the memories of her people the only solace she holds dear. Unaware of the power sleeping inside her, the friendship she fosters with the fabled King of Thieves is her catalyst to become more than just a vagrant of the sands.And yet, though sunrise blessed their meeting, there is a darkness at play, one that would see Kemet destroyed. This land was never kind to her, but her home is in danger - and she will not stand aside and watch another village burn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so some of you will no doubt be aware of the controversy that went around earlier this year regarding "Of Sunset and Moonrise." There was a lot of problematic content in there that I received backlash for, and I was a stubborn ass for a long time before I finally pulled the story down. Well, this is that story, but with a new name and a fair bit of editing - mostly around Malik's character. 
> 
> I made it clear back then that I would eventually come back to writing this, and I would like to think I've come back to it a better person. Keep an open mind if you're reading this, and please know that I've tried my very best. I think this is an improvement. Hopefully you do, too.

Kemet's cold nights brought with them bitter winds, the frustrated breath of Apep as he battled with Ra for the right to rule the skies. Few townsfolk dared to venture out into the blackness, lest they be set upon by thieves, slavers, or worse, but for some, the cover of dark bore a welcoming air, a promise of sanctuary from staring eyes and suspicious whispers.

A lone figure crouched beneath the twisted branches of a long-dead tree, face obscured by a thick hood to ward off the cold. The furs draped over her shoulders might have denoted nobility to the lesser-learned, but the once-silky fibres had long since flattened with age, ragged and torn. Despite the fabrics swathing her body, she shivered with each harsh snap of the wind, bare toes curling and uncurling against the sand and gravel beneath her feet.

Her mother told her, when she was still but a child, that she was of the moon – and it was on nights like this, when Khonsu held his light in the shape of a crescent – that she felt most at peace with the world. The path she walked had never been easy, but she was alive, at least…that was something. She slipped back her hood to let the moonlight shine across her face, closing her eyes and soaking in the holy rays.

Kisara was her name. An orphan, shunned by civilisation and cast to the wilderness; loneliness her shroud, solitude her companion. A maid just shy of eighteen years, beautiful, yet feared…a vagrant of the desert for as long as she could remember. Some called her a tragic omen, others simply chased her away. Kisara had long since learned to avoid towns unless in desperate need of food or medicine.

A cloud drifted lazily over Khonsu’s brilliance. Kisara opened her eyes at the fading blessing over her skin. With a sigh, she leaned back against the scratchy trunk of the dead tree, and crossed her legs as she slipped a pale hand into the inner wrapping of her dress. She retrieved a small, half-burnt round of bread, the only morsel she had been brave enough to sneak from the discards of the baker on the outskirts of the village, and indeed, probably all she would survive on for the next few days. Kisara broke off a small chunk and nibbled on it as she watched swirls of sand dancing in the chilly wind of the night.

_“Wish upon the moon that became you,”_ their prayers instructed. _“When your eyes grow dark, and your heart does weep…when your gait heavies and your hands lose strength…wish upon the moon that became you, and thus the veil of shadow is lifted.”_

Oh, how she had wished, over and over, and for how many years? Yet here she was, still alone, still shadowed. Perhaps the gods intended more suffering to come her way before her wish could be granted, and who was she, but a humble girl, to question their might? So Kisara fought on, proud of her heritage, proud of the defiance her village had shown, right up till the very end, when every last man, woman, and child had been slaughtered by the nomad warriors that rode through the sands like Pharaohs in their own right. She was the only one left of _the “neheh remet iah”,_ the People of the Eternal Moon. Ever since that day, tragedy and destruction had never been far behind.

A shrew scampered past Kisara, brushing against her ankle and stopping a moment to dig in the sand. Kisara tossed it a tiny piece of bread, watching with a soft smile as it grasped the wheaten chunk with its front paws and nibbled on it. She tucked the rest of the bread back into her dress and closed her eyes for as long as she dared.

In dreams, she soared, weightless, above the still land. Only in those momentary breaks of slumber could she feel free from the burdens heavy on her shoulders…but sleep never came easy to one ever fearful of a corruption between the thighs, the ice of a knife in the heart. So Kisara slept, but never rested, always on the move, hoping, for all that the world despised her decision, that she could stay alive…just a little longer…

A warm, soft nuzzle at Kisara’s breast roused her, and she opened her eyes with a start. She looked down at the pair of jewel-bright orbs staring up at her, and realised with a giggle that the shrew had clambered into her dress to filch more of her bread. “Well, really now, you could have just asked,” she smiled, cupping the tiny rodent in her hand. It sat placidly in her palm, nose twitching. “Here, then…I can’t resist that cute nose.” Kisara reached into her dress and broke off another small piece, which she placed in front of the shrew. Starvation be damned, such joy was worth the pain.

How long had she slept? She looked up at the moon, and frowned to see it had dipped lower in the sky. Ra would soon emerge from Apep’s effortless clutches, and dawn would be upon Kemet once more. Kisara would need to keep her fragile skin covered, or else find shelter from Ra’s scorching judgement – the curse of her people did not favour the sun, and more than once she had blistered under his might.

As Kisara mused, a soft plodding met her ears, so quiet that at first, she hadn’t registered the potential danger. In an instant, however, her head snapped up, eyes darting this way and that, scouting the dim landscape. There was a knife in her dress, but whether she could pull it out quick enough in a fight remained to be seen, and there was nowhere to hide in the bleak stretch of nothing but sand. With the realisation that all she could do was stay put and hope for safety, Kisara remained where she was, alert, but still and calm.

A tall, graceful shape shifted over the horizon, a faint smudge gradually becoming corporeal – a horse, well-built and blessed with a beautiful chestnut coat. The rider on its back kept their hooded head low, a certain stiffness about their posture. Even as they drew closer, Kisara could not make out the features beneath the hood. She fumbled with the covering atop her own head, concealing her tumble of silver-bright locks from hateful eyes and hoping it was enough.

The rider stopped in front of her. If they were looking at Kisara, she couldn’t tell – their hood was drawn too low down.

“These are dangerous times, for a woman to be on her lonesome in the desert.” The voice was low, masculine. “Anybody might think you…have something to hide.”

Kisara straightened up, staring at the stranger. “I believe we all have something to hide, sir.”

The tone shifted, and the stranger uttered a short chuckle. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

“I’m used to hiding. But your concern is…touching.” Kisara inclined her head slightly.

“As you say.” The stranger returned Kisara’s gesture. “You will find naught but ghosts from here on out. The city would be a safer choice.”

“Nowhere is safe for me,” Kisara replied quietly. She reached into her hood to tug at a lock of hair, the action unconscious and absent-minded.

The stranger sucked in a sharp breath, and she looked up to see him dismounting the horse with an almost clumsy, hurried gait. Kisara tensed, her free hand slipping into her dress, slim fingers wrapping round the handle of her knife. She’d never killed before, couldn’t stand the thought of taking a life, but if she were in danger, it might be all she could do. The lone figure was in front of her now, squatting in the sand, and he reached out a hand towards her face just as she pulled the knife out, ready to defend herself.

The stranger grabbed her wrist with his free hand, twisting until she winced and dropped the crude blade. With the other, he picked up the lock of starlight that had tumbled free of Kisara’s hood. Frozen, powerless to do anything but watch, Kisara held her breath, waiting for the stranger’s reaction.

His face lifted then, and for the first time she saw the features beneath his ragged hood – pale, silver-purple eyes, skin the colour of silt, a broad nose, a distinct scar on the right side of his face…and as Ra’s fiery chariot appeared over the horizon, the man before her pushed back his own hood, and Kisara gasped to see the shock of smoky grey hair that had hidden beneath.

“Who _are_ you?” she whispered.

“I might ask the same of you.”

“I’m…” She dropped her gaze. “I’m nobody.”

“You must have a name.”

“…My mother named me Kisara.”

“Kisara.” He said it slowly, as if sampling a platter of fine dates. “You are of the moon village. I thought all of your kind slain.”

“I’m the only one left.”

The stranger rocked back onto his heels and sat down with a soft _thump._ “Hmmm…such a rare jewel in this vast expanse of wasteland. Little wonder you say you aren’t safe here.”

A soft scowl furrowed Kisara’s brow. “The people, they…they fear me. I mean them no harm, but they see my white skin, and my hair, and they are afraid. I have to stay away from them.”

“It’s no way to survive, is it?”

She blinked at him, taking in his words. “You…but you…”

The stranger shrugged. “I’m as dark as the rest of them, sure, but they fear me too. Those with moonlight in their souls harbour power far beyond the comprehension in their pitiful minds.”

“Do you hide, too?”

“It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Kisara reached out her hands, only meaning to touch the stranger’s cheeks, but he jerked back, suspicion in his eyes. She lowered her hands, folding them in her lap. “Do you have a name, sir?”

He shook his head. “Not one that I can remember.”

“You don’t remember your name?”

“Long story.”

Sunrise ringed the stranger’s head in a fiery wreath, highlighting his hair in countless tones of silver. The thought made her smile. She didn’t know the man at all, and yet, they shared so much. “May I call you Bakhure?” she asked.

“Bakhure?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because our meeting has been blessed by Ra’s emergence from the Duat.”

He looked at her as though she had gone mad. “Blessed?” he scoffed. “There are no blessings in this world, and you certainly gain nothing from having met _me._ When we tire of speaking I’ll get onto my horse and disappear, and as for you? I don’t know. Maybe you will continue to sit here, too afraid to face the eyes of the people that judge you, and waste away beneath those _blessings_ you believe in.” A sour expression replaced his prior confusion as he flicked a pebble. “Call me what you want. I won’t be sticking around to hear it.”

The young man’s sudden hostility didn’t take Kisara by surprise. She was used to it, experiencing it every time she wandered too close to a village. It was the disappointment in his face that had her mildly astonished – as if he had expected more from her. No, that couldn’t be the case, surely…she was nothing, a mere stain that had failed to be obliterated from Kemet’s otherwise flawless beauty, too stubborn to die with the rest. She watched him stand from his awkward crouch, brush dirt off his robes, and turn his back to her, stalking over to his horse.

“Wait! Don’t go!”

The stranger looked over his shoulder as Kisara scrabbled to her feet. “What do you _want?”_ he snapped.

Trust had never come easily to her, and with good reason, but this man…

“It’s been so long…so long…” Kisara murmured, reaching out a quivering hand, “…the last time I saw hair like yours, I was just a child. I never thought I would see its like again.” This time she managed to lay a hand on the silver-haired man’s cheek, and he didn’t back off, just eyed her with brows drawn and lips pursed. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “I…don’t want to be alone out here, not now I know someone with my hair exists still.”

He shook his head. “You’d be of no use to me.”

“Must I be?”

“I walk a dangerous path, Kisara. You’re not the only one cursed.”

“Then we can be cursed together,” she whispered. “Please, Bakhure. Whatever you ask of me, I will do. Just…please…take me with you.”

He stood stock-still, as frozen to the spot as Kisara had been when he touched her hair. Her hand still cupping his cheek, she searched his eyes for any trace of relenting. He stared back, tense and uncertain, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

She waited…waited…waited…

Finally, Bakhure slapped her hands away. “I’ll consider it…if you find my village. If you succeed, I’ll think about letting you tag along with me. Shouldn’t be too hard for a seasoned vagrant, hm?” He gave Kisara a shove backwards and jumped onto his horse. Kisara didn’t get a chance to respond – Bakhure jerked the reins and the horse reared, hooves thudding back into the sand before breaking into a hard gallop. Kisara tugged her hood over her face to guard against the spray of sand the horse kicked up as Bakhure made his swift exit.

She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t disappointed, but it was a start. He hadn’t said no. But now she had to play his little game…she hoped it would be worth the sunburn.

And so on she walked...

The sun rose high in the sky, but Kisara long lost any sense of the passage of time.

She wiped sweat from her brow, wishing for something to drink. She had been walking for much of the day, never a step closer to finding Bakhure’s village, or indeed, _any_ village. Ra’s fire merciless on her skin, she had seen no shelter thus far. Her mother warned her about remaining for too long beneath the sun, how she must cover herself so as not to be burned by the might of the gods, but _goodness,_ it was hot underneath the linens and furs. Kisara alternated between swaddling herself protectively, and peeling off a few layers to cool down, but her skin soon turned pink and sore, an angry buzz of discomfort over her body, so she settled for covering up again. As her lips dried and cracked, she squeezed a little moisture from a succulent plant and rubbed it over her lips, which soothed the pain, but did nothing to prevent them becoming so aggravated they bled whenever she opened her mouth.

_This is futile. I must find shelter soon…_ Kisara sighed and rubbed her temples. _My head is pounding…I don’t remember ever being this hot before._ She cast her gaze around, searching for the tell-tale sparkle of the Nile, but nothing jumped out at her. _There’s nothing I can do but continue on until it’s safe for me to stop._

It was hard. Her chest burned with every breath; her feet burned with every step. No longer did Kisara sweat. Oh, why had she not taken beer as well as bread? Her throat became as dry as the desert, parched and lifeless. She stumbled over an outcrop of rock and rubbed her sore toe with a wince. _Tired…so tired…_

She sat down on the rock and leaned her head on her bent knees. Overhead, Ra was unrelenting in his mighty display of power, a scorching wave within his lands. As she lifted her eyes to the dusty horizon, the air shimmered and wavered, distorting her vision - and was that a...? No, surely not...

_I must be seeing things in my exhaustion..._ Kisara frowned at the wispy apparition that swished around her; she could have sworn she heard something whisper in her ear at the same time. _And hearing things, too. Oh, dear. The heat has driven me mad._ She dropped her head to her knees again as a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her. Maybe sleeping awhile would help clear her head...

_You will find naught but ghosts from here on out._

Kisara's head jerked upright, the young man’s words ringing clearly in her ears. The apparition...it wasn't her imagination. She could _see it,_ hovering pale and translucent a few feet away from her, drifting slowly in the direction Kisara had been walking. What could it mean? Was there danger ahead? Regardless, Kisara found new strength in her curiosity, and pushed herself to her feet, eager to follow, to discover what lay before her.

This area of the desert was new to her, though it appeared just as unremarkable as any other stretch of sand and rock. She'd simply never had the need to wander this way, opting to remain as close to Waset, or the neighbouring villages, as she could do safely. The apparition, however…a sense of salvation emanated from it, a promise of eventual safety the likes of which she could not have ever known. Or maybe Kisara had simply begun to hallucinate and imagine delusions in her exhausted, dehydrated state. She could no longer be sure.

Her feet trudged on, no longer heeding the burn of sand, the glare of Ra’s fire in the sky. If she could just…follow a little longer…surely then…

The landscape began to blur before her drooping eyes, distorting the faint outlines of the stone huts not far ahead. Dimly, as brilliant white enveloped her vision, she wondered if it would be safe to draw closer.

_Did I make it…?_

A roar echoed in her ears, and then silence...

Silence?

The desert was never silent...

By the time Kisara's vision cleared, she found herself on her back, staring up at a dull, grey sky. Damp pressure coated her brow, her skin hot and irritated. She turned her head to the side; with a soft _squelch,_ a cloth slid over her eyes, obscuring her sight once more. She lifted a hand to remove it, realising that she was no longer outside, but within the walls of a half-ruined building. A sheet covered her nakedness, and a reed mat itched beneath her. 

_How did I get here? I don't remember...after I saw..._ Kisara sat up slowly, holding the sheet to her chest. Every muscle in her body begged to return to a supine state, and her head spun with dizziness, but she forced herself to sit tall and gaze around the bare interior of what appeared to have once been somebody's home. _Where am I?_

"Oho! The princess awakens!"

Kisara's head jerked to the side. A wide, toothy grin leered at her through the remains of a low-set window, and she could have laughed to see the rapture on his face, had she possessed the energy. "Bakhure?" she chanced weakly.

"I believe that's what you decided to call me, yes." Bakhure leaned further in, folding his arms across the rough-hewn masonry. "You'd fainted just outside the village. Did you see it? Had it scared you?"

"See...what?"

"The creature!" Bakhure laughed. "The creature in the sky! As brilliant as the moon and fearsome as the gods themselves! I heard its roar and came out to investigate - that's when I found you beneath it." He wagged a finger at Kisara. "You caused me a great deal of trouble, you know. That thing probably would have eaten you if I hadn't got to you first. So? Where are my words of gratitude?"

Kisara's head spun again in her confusion, her brow coming to rest on her knees to anchor herself before she passed out again. "I-I don't..."

"Ah, no matter. In any case, you made it here, and quicker than I thought, too."

"Yes..." Kisara lifted her head ever so slightly. "I remembered what you said about ghosts."

"And you'll see a lot of them here." Bakhure cocked his head to the side and smirked. "Welcome to Kul Elna, Kisara.”


	2. Chapter 2

Kisara rested for the next few days, regaining her strength. Uncomfortable and itchy, she could at first do little but toss about fretfully in her makeshift bed, but the familiar exhaustion soon set in and after more sleep, she felt a little better. Her sun-damaged skin ached and stung, but the cold, shimmering wavers of the ghostly apparitions that occasionally floated through the building, strangely, brought a little relief. They didn’t scare her. They didn’t throw rotting food at her or scream in terror. Rather, their presence was tame, compared to her fellow humans.

Bakhure checked on her infrequently throughout her recuperation, though he rarely stayed long and did not speak of the origins of the ghosts, or the ruined condition of the village, or why he appeared to be the only person living there. Kisara asked him, once or twice, but nothing forthcoming ever came, and she was too tired to press for details, simply glad that she had somewhere to shelter and rest. Bakhure brought food and beer for her, so she wouldn’t have to get up too much, but she drew the line at his demands to check how her skin was healing, choosing instead to swaddle herself in the sparse linens on her person. She welcomed the sustenance, however – food was something she would not easily turn down.

On Kisara’s fourth night in Kul Elna, she felt strong enough to venture outside of the ruined house that had protected her since her arrival. She tied the linen sheets around her body and knotted them carefully so they wouldn’t slip, and took the first few, shaky steps into the bracing evening air.

The village around her lay in a state of abandonment and dilapidation, with nary a sign of life to be seen. Indeed, the ghosts that surrounded her appeared to be the only objects that could be considered alive in any sense. Kisara guessed that the village had suffered a similar fate to her own, estimating that perhaps ten to fifteen years had passed, judging by the weathering of the crumbling mud huts, the sand dunes piled high from countless gusts of hot, dry wind. There was no silence – the ghosts whispered constantly – but a certain absence of life carried through the air, an absence that spoke of nobody having been resident for a long time.

A soft whinny caught Kisara’s ear, and she turned slightly in the direction of the noise. Only a minute’s slow walking found her standing before a stable, crudely built but showing ageing signs of repair and remodelling. Within stood Bakhure’s horse, shaking her head and snorting as she nosed her way into a trough of feed. Kisara smiled gently to see her – for she was a female, as Bakhure had told her, named Anat – and approached the structure with careful steps, not wanting to startle the steed. “Hello,” Kisara called out softly.

Anat raised her head at the sound, and gave another snort. After a moment she ambled over to the low wall of the stable and rested her head over it, allowing Kisara to pat her nose. “Beautiful lady,” Kisara crooned, “are you on your own? How sad…must all life in this village be destined to remain apart from others?” Anat nibbled on her hair in response. “I won’t keep you long,” Kisara giggled. “I know you must be hungry. Bakhure keeps you busy, hm?”

“A man has to live somehow.” Kisara jumped in surprise, having not heard Bakhure appear several feet behind her. He strolled over and gave Anat’s nose a few good pats of his own, Kisara noticing, for the first time, that he stood a little shorter than she herself did. “She will eat me out of this place someday, I swear, but until then, I will treat her like the Pharaoh treats his Great Royal Wife…which I hope is as though she were a goddess in her own right.” He tilted his head, glancing at Kisara through the matted fringe half-obscuring his eyes. “You’re up and about. Not going to pass out on me again, are you?”

Kisara shook her head. “I feel stronger now.”

“Good. I’ve better things to do than be your nurse.”

The tone in Bakhure’s voice made Kisara bristle slightly. “I never intended to inconvenience you.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” Bakhure muttered. “Some things are unavoidable, as they say.” He didn’t seem to be genuinely irritated at having had to look after Kisara, but she took no pride in reading the expressions and emotions of the people around her, and couldn’t be sure without questioning him further.

Instead she dipped her head slightly. “…I wish to explore the village, if that’s okay.”

Bakhure nodded. “Feel free. Come to the house by the well when you're finished, and we can talk."

"I will." Kisara gave Anat's nose one more pat for good measure before sidestepping Bakhure, taking timid steps into the ruined village of ghosts.

Mud brick houses stood in uneven rows down the dusty streets, spaced irregularly and giving the impression of a residential area built up hurriedly and without due care. Kisara wondered of the people who once called this place home - what they did in their daily lives, whether they were happy, well-fed.

She peered into several of the houses, surprised to see that despite being sparsely furnished as expected, nothing appeared to have been stolen or ransacked in the time since they had been abandoned. “I don’t suppose you have anything to do with this?” Kisara said to a ghost circling over her head, wagging a finger at it. It drifted on, unperturbed, and she giggled to herself as she pulled back and resumed her exploration.

Overall, the village was unremarkable, much like all the other small gatherings Kisara had come across in her time wandering Kemet. Only the holy city of Waset had ever held any majesty for her. The wind ruffled Kisara’s hair as she walked, callous-hardened soles sweeping effortlessly over the rough sand. From here on out, the streets turned haphazard, branching off in every which direction, and she picked them at random to explore. What looked like storefronts began to materialise now, Kisara spotting a kiln in one building, a weaving apparatus in another. Again, she marvelled that nothing had been stolen.

Soon the winding, narrow streets brought her back onto the main path through the village, and she came to the well, or what remained of it – a crumbling, once-circle of limestone and a cracked bucket sitting in its bone-dry depths. Beside the well stood a house larger than many of the other residencies she had passed, two storeys high and looking as though it had survived the ravages of time a little better than the rest. Movement flickered past the window on the upper level as she approached the house.

_This must be where Bakhure spends his time,_ Kisara thought, standing in the entryway to look around. Immediately she could see that Bakhure was either well-travelled or very wealthy, for large clay pots sat scattered throughout the downstairs rooms, their innards giving a faint twinkle when she peered inside them. A long bolt of dyed linen spread out across the floor, its colour reserved for nobility and the overall cloth quite possibly more expensive than anything Kisara had ever seen. _Goodness me, he must have some stories to tell._

She found Bakhure squatting down with a metal pot in front of him, his face, chest and arms spattered with light sprays of blood from the duck carcass he was currently gutting and cleaning. Feathers lay all around him, and a few had made a nest in his tangle of hair. Kisara hovered by the stairs, watching silently, not wanting to interrupt him. After a few minutes, Bakhure’s eyes flicked upwards. “So?” he asked.

Kisara frowned. “So…?”

“My village. What do you think?”

_“Your…_ village?”

Bakhure shrugged. “Well, I’m the only one here, unless you count the ghosts. Yeah, I’d say it’s mine.”

“I…” Kisara took a few steps into the room. “It’s certainly different from other villages I have passed through, but only in some ways.” She settled into a cross-legged position on the floor, twitching her makeshift dress into something a little more modest. “How long has it been abandoned?”

“If I had to guess…” Bakhure dropped the duck carcass into the pot and scowled at his fingers, “…how many times has the Nile cycled since…? At least ten, though maybe closer to fifteen. A long time now, at any rate.”

“How old are you, Bakhure?”

“I lost count of that a while back. Twenty is about as good a guess as I can make. A little more than that, maybe.”

Kisara gestured to the room at large. “So all this…happened when you were a child?”

“That’s right.”

“What - ?”

Bakhure shook his head and grabbed the duck and knife again. “Make yourself useful and go start a fire, would you? You’ll find what you need downstairs.”

The tone in his voice made it clear the subject was not one he wished to discuss, so Kisara acquiesced and retreated back to the lower floor of the house. A bow drill sat atop one of the clay pots, and there was tinder and old, dead wood inside when she lifted the lid. Kisara had not built many fires in her life, but she remembered her father showing her as a child; with those memories fresh in her mind, she picked up what she needed and took it all outside. A blackened patch of floor to the side of the house indicated where previous fires had been lit, and Kisara set the wood down there, the tinder beside it as she tested the string of the bow drill. _A little worn, but it looks like it will hold._

A few minutes and several foot and shin bruises later, she had a good ember going, and after blowing on it to encourage the flames, transferred it to the wood pile. At first it looked as though it wouldn’t take, and then with a crack of steam escaping the insides of the twigs and branches, the fire began burning merrily. Kisara smiled to herself, pleased, and held her hands towards the warming flames, enjoying the satisfying tingle that ran down her fingers.

“Ah, you managed that quickly.” Bakhure’s voice made Kisara jump; she’d been so engrossed in warming herself that she hadn’t heard him come up behind her. She frowned at him as he sidestepped round her to kneel by the fire. “What?” he smirked.

“Must you do that?”

“Huh?”

“Sneaking up on me. It’s unnerving.”

“Oh.” Bakhure sniggered. “I wouldn’t be me if I couldn’t be proud of my silent feet. They’re what keep me alive, you know.”

She sighed pointedly. “Who _are_ you?”

“Let me finish setting this up.” He indicated the duck in his hand, now mounted on a crudely built spit, which he erected over the fire. Only then did he sit back and regard Kisara with any degree of attention, holding out a small jar to her that she hadn’t noticed him bring outside. “It’s wine,” he explained when she just blinked at the jar. After a moment, she took it and gave the liquid inside a cautious sniff. “Set’s fucking balls, I haven’t poisoned it. What use would that be? Stop looking at it like it insulted your mother and drink.”

_How rude._ Kisara nonetheless took a small sip. Sweet, juicy flavour burst across her tongue, and she gave a small squeal of surprise. A droplet ran down her chin, which she eagerly scooped up with her finger and pushed into her mouth. “This is delicious,” she marvelled. “I’ve never tasted wine so lovely. Where did you purchase it from?”

Bakhure’s smile grew crooked and cheeky. “Purchase…” he mumbled to himself, the hint of a laugh in his voice.

Kisara’s frown returned. “You didn’t buy this, did you?”

“Nope.”

“You stole it?”

“Guilty as charged.” Bakhure turned the duck on its spit. “It’s a bit selfish of those fat old nobles to hoard all the good stuff for themselves when they die, wouldn’t you say? They’re not going to get drunk off it, so I figure I’ll do it for them. You won’t find any finer vintages than the ones amongst the dead, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“…You robbed a tomb.”

“Many, sweet child,” Bakhure replied nonchalantly. “Someone has to make use of all those forgotten riches, and I just happen to make the most of them.”

She set the jar of wine down slowly, pushing it over towards Bakhure. “I know who you are.”

“Most do, when they hear of my wonderful deeds, though they don’t know my face.” Bakhure picked up the jar and took a deep swig, licking his lips afterwards. “Are you surprised? Scared? Maybe you ought to be. That seems to be what has kept you alive all these years.”

How could she be? The young man shared her hair colour, and beheld her as if she were human, and not a monster. Bakhure looked a little disappointed when Kisara simply took the jar back for another sip of wine. “They tell many stories about you in the city, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do.”

“They say the King of Thieves has skin hard as stone, to slip past the defences in the tombs,” Kisara recounted. “They say he lies with men, women and demons alike, and that his heart is as black as the night he toils in.” She allowed herself a smile and a chuckle. “You’re quite the legend in the streets.”

“And a legend in the sheets as well, it would seem.” Bakhure’s cheeks held the slightest blush, but his smirk continued. “Well, you can see by my scars that my skin isn’t quite as invincible as the townsfolk would have you believe, and as for my heart, who knows? I’ve not had the luxury of seeing it.” He stole the jar back, tilting it and peering inside to see how much wine was left, then took a sip. “Do you disapprove of the life I’ve carved out for myself? Be honest – you at least owe me that much.”

Kisara looked down at her knees, allowing her tongue to poke out slightly between her lips as she thought. Times in Kemet were hard – famine and disease was rife in the villages, whilst those in the city remained in relative safety and luxury. People had little to barter with at the markets, so they could not buy the meagre supplies available to them. And as all this happened around the Pharaoh and his court, they barely batted an eyelid as they afforded their higher-ups extravagant burials, their tombs laden with gold, gems, trinkets, artefacts, and more food than surely even their reborn souls would be able to benefit from in the afterlife. It seemed gluttonous, selfish, even.

Was it so wrong, then, to take some of that for oneself?

Thievery was a serious crime, and Kisara had known many to lose fingers as punishment, but to steal from a burial site carried an automatic execution sentence. The young man before her, however, showed no fear, no reason to believe he would ever be caught. A hand occasionally turning the cooking duck on its spit, he watched Kisara with unblinking eyes, waiting for her response.

Finally, she found her voice. “Even if I did, that wouldn’t stop you, would it?”

“No,” Bakhure replied. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I have made my bed, and now I must lie in it, no matter the consequences. This is who I’ve become, and you know what, I’m damn fucking good at it.” He tipped his head back to glug from the wine jar, stopped, frowned, and chucked it aside, finding it empty. “And if you’re tagging along with me, then you’ll have to get used to me and my sticky fingers…maybe pick up a few tricks of the trade yourself, if you don’t get killed in the process, of course.”

“You want me to help you rob tombs?”

Bakhure’s pale eyes bore into Kisara’s. “I don’t do anything for free, Kisara. Getting you back into optimum health was the exception to the rule – I sure as hell don’t have the resources to feed, clothe and protect you when it’s a battle just to be able to do that for myself half the time.”

Kisara sat a little straighter, hands bunching her dress as the first notes of frustration simmered in the pit of her stomach. “And if I refuse?”

For a long moment, only the crackle of the fire ebbed between them. Eyes of murky moonlight continued to pierce Kisara’s orbs of azure, capturing her in a gaze both deadly and questioning that she couldn’t tear herself away from.

Then Bakhure shrugged. “Then I guess you just aren’t as pissed off at the world as I thought you might be.”

Kisara gasped, her surprise giving way to anger a split-second later. “How dare you,” she scowled. “My friends and family were slaughtered before my eyes, my home ripped away from me. I’m an outcast and an eyesore because of my skin and my hair, and I’m afforded no salvation from the hatred of the people!” She got to her feet, trembling with rage. “Every single day has been a fight for survival! Don’t even begin to tell me how I feel about the world. You have no idea how painful my life has been!”

“Oh, and you think _I’m_ any different?” Bakhure snapped.

“I think that you are an arrogant, selfish, stuck-up child who has yet to learn the meaning of keeping his hands to himself - !” Kisara covered her mouth quickly, eyes widening at the harshness of her words. “O-Oh…goodness, I don’t…”

Her words trailed off as Bakhure suddenly burst into peals of raucous laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “Ah, there it is,” he grinned. “There’s the rebellious streak I knew you had somewhere.” He patted the floor beside him, and Kisara slowly, suspiciously, dropped back to her knees, watching his every move.

“Listen, Kisara…” Bakhure raised a hand to her chin, lifting her face so their eyes could meet, “you had better fight on, alright? The gods cursed us, but we fought back in spite of them. That’s how our lives have been from the moment we were brought into the world, and it sure as hell won’t be changing anytime soon. Whether it’s here with me, or out there on your own in the desert, you need to fight on, otherwise your entire existence will mean fuck all. Do you understand?”

Tears filled Kisara’s eyes, her lower lip trembling, but she swiped away the tears quickly, not wanting to appear weaker than she already was. “It’s been so long since I knew what safety felt like,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I could bear that feeling to be taken from me again.”

Bakhure raised a silvery eyebrow. “So that means you’re staying?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Silly girl…” Bakhure pressed their brows together, “you always had a choice.”

The fire sputtered and crackled, hiding the grateful sob the maiden choked back in her throat.


	3. Chapter 3

“What’s this?”

“It’s for your hair.”

“My…hair?”

_“Yes,_ your hair.” Bakhure huffed out an impatient breath as he continued to hold out the small clay pot. “Look, it’s either this or I cut the lot off and shove a wig on you, and frankly, that would be an insult to the last light of Khonsu in this damn land. So, what’s it going to be?”

Slowly, Kisara took the pot from Bakhure and lifted the lid to peer at the dark, thick, rather lumpy paste within. She couldn’t help wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Is this the only way?” she asked quietly.

Bakhure simply shrugged. “I figured after so many years being feared for how you look, the chance to change your hair colour would be something you’d leap at.”

“I know, but still…”

“Yes, yes, gift of the gods and all that…ugh, do what you want, but don’t blame me if it gets you killed.” Bakhure turned away from Kisara to sit down heavily on the ground, picking up the length of indigo-dyed linen he had been roughly sewing. He spoke no further, a testy finality in his posture and tone.

Kisara knew that he was right – they needed to go into Waset, for they were running low on bread and beer. Kisara’s skin had healed since her arrival in Kul Elna, and she had put together an assortment of clothing from the various bolts of old linen Bakhure had lying about, but the issue of her natural appearance remained – and here in her hand sat the solution, but could she go through with it?

_It’s not like there are any wigs here anyway…I don’t exactly have a choice in this…_

Defeated, Kisara took the pot outside and stripped off her clothing, not wanting to stain any of it. She dampened her hair, combed it out, then wrapped her hands in linen and got to work scrubbing and massaging the dark paste through from the roots downwards.

_It’ll probably look nice when it’s done,_ she thought to herself. _There are many ladies in the city who have hair in all kinds of wonderful brown and red shades…_ “Do I leave it in, or do I rinse it off?” Kisara called back into the house.

“Leave it on awhile!” Bakhure yelled back. “Stick something over your head so it doesn’t stain everything in existence.”

Several hours later, having wandered down to a branch in the Nile to bathe and rinse the thick concoction from her hair, Kisara re-entered the house bearing a rather stained forehead and ears, but flowing down her shoulders were locks the colour of pomegranate blossoms. She’d been rather giddy when she admired her reflection in the river, but now, standing before a completely silent Bakhure, nervousness instead pervaded her.

“So…um…” Kisara shifted from one foot to the other.

The King of Thieves stepped closer and tilted his head to the side, scrutinising Kisara’s new look. The linen he had been working with previously now wrapped and draped around his waist in a crude but nevertheless striking-looking _shenti,_ his own new look alongside Kisara’s and one that complemented his dark skin quite nicely..

He spoke after a few moments. “…Your forehead is orange.”

Kisara flushed and turned her head away. “I-I know. I tried to be careful.”

“Ah, well. It’ll scrub off in due time.” Bakhure picked up a skein of fiery hair, eyes travelling down it slowly. “It came out bright, hm?”

“Yes…it surprised me, too. It’s lovely, though. Much better than cutting all my hair off.”

Bakhure snorted, smirking. “Much better indeed.” He dropped the hair and pointed over to one of the many large clay pots in the room. “Grab a few decorations – you’re not going into the city looking like a peasant girl.”

She wanted to ask if he was sure, but questioning Bakhure too much usually made him angry, and in any case, the chance to wear some expensive – albeit stolen – jewellery made Kisara’s stomach give a little twist in excitement. From inside the pot she picked out a faience collar, a dyed linen and cotton belt, and some bronze bracelets. After decking herself out in the finery, she outlined her eyes with dark kohl, and scrubbed at the staining on her forehead in the hope she could remove some of the pigment.

Bakhure didn’t bother so much with embellishing himself, opting instead just to tie a cloth over his head to conceal his hair, and then outlined his eyes as Kisara had. He remained bare-chested, clad just in the _shenti,_ but he slipped on a pair of simple, woven-reed sandals, and managed to find a smaller pair for Kisara to wear as well.

Finally, they stood together, eyeing up each other’s garb. Bakhure always carried himself with an aloof, definitely arrogant air, but now, with his eyes darkened, and noble colours on his person, he looked as though he deserved that air and more. Kisara said nothing, though, and Bakhure likewise remained mute as they clambered onto Anat and began the journey into Waset.

They didn’t rush, maintaining a leisurely pace, and Anat stopped occasionally to nibble on stray patches of dry grass. The path they took crossed over hills and through an imposing valley that Kisara had never travelled in before, though Bakhure seemed to know the place like the back of his hand. Kisara dozed quite happily for half the trip, head between Bakhure’s shoulder blades and arms locked round his waist.

Waset was relatively quiet, with Ra’s fire being at its highest, the scorching temperatures forcing the city folk to retreat within the cooler walls of their houses. Bakhure and Kisara left Anat at a stable, watched over by a young slave boy, and they set off into the depths of the city. “Tavern first,” Bakhure grunted, pointing to a whitewashed building on the corner. “Need to speak with someone.”

“Who?” Kisara asked, hurrying two small steps for each of Bakhure’s long strides.

“An eternal pain in my ass. You’ll see.” There was no door, just a faded sheet of linen to act as a curtain; Bakhure burst carelessly through it and yelled out into the room at large, “Oi! Inanna!”

Several girls looked up, giggling, their men taking little notice. Kisara peeked out over Bakhure’s shoulder, holding onto his arm warily. She knew the name Inanna to be a goddess of fertility in the Mesopotamian lands – but none of the girls currently tittering to each other appeared to be Bakhure’s target. Who, then?

Another curtain across the room fluttered, and a low, smooth voice called out from behind it, “Here, honey!”

Scoffing, Bakhure flicked Kisara’s hand away from his arm and made for the source of the voice, Kisara following behind, trying to ignore the stares directed at her. Through the curtain led to a brewery room of sorts, large terracotta vats standing in rows against the walls, and into one, a man – not a woman as she had expected – was pouring a steady stream of grain. He was already bickering with a resigned-looking King of Thieves, but on Kisara’s appearance he paused a moment, frowning.

“Bakhure?” Kisara chanced, going to hold his arm again.

The young man smiled a lop-sided grin. “My king appears to have found himself a queen, and a name to boot. What an interesting turn of events.” He had skin like golden oak, and dirty blonde hair that fell to his shoulders, jewel-bright amethyst eyes peering out from beneath his fringe. He appeared around Bakhure’s age. _He knows who Bakhure is,_ Kisara realised, _to call him as such._

But Bakhure just rolled his eyes. “Shut it, Malik, will you? For once in your life?”

Kisara looked back and forth between them. “I thought you were looking for Inanna.”

“That’s me, honey,” Malik said, waving. “Inanna’s just a nickname. And you are?”

Kisara made to answer, but Bakhure interrupted, “Names, names, nobody cares about names right now, so can we get to the fucking point already?”

“My, my…you _are_ feeling testy today, my king.” Malik turned back to the vat of grain and picked up a long spoon to stir the mixture inside. “I have to finish preparing this batch first, so go make yourself comfortable with the rest, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes. We can talk then.”

“That’s more like it.” Bakhure gave Kisara a nudge back towards the door.

There was a low table unoccupied in a dim and dusty corner; they sat there, and Kisara looked around in the moments of quiet afforded them. The tavern itself was cramped, but well-lit from the position of Ra in the sky, and the patrons had a weary, weather-beaten look about them as they sipped from their patterned jars of beer. “Merchants, most of them,” Bakhure explained, without Kisara’s asking, “taking a break from the heat. Other workers are paid in bread and beer from their employers, and don’t frequent these areas as much.”

“And the girls?”

Bakhure chuckled. “I reckon one or two work here with Malik. The rest…well, just look at their clothing, but your guess is as good as mine.” Kisara did look, and saw beaded nets of blue-green faience over their _shentis_ and _kalasiris._ The meaning escaped her, so she just shrugged, and Bakhure gave an amused snort at her confusion.

Malik swept through soon after, topping up his patrons’ beers before bringing a jar each to Bakhure and Kisara. “So,” he smiled, sitting down with them, “how can I help my king?”

“Don’t call me that in public,” Bakhure muttered through gritted teeth.

“Mm, privately, gotcha. _Bakhure,_ then. A lovely name. Did your new friend come up with that?”

“I hate you.” Bakhure took a swig of beer, scowling.

Malik looked next to Kisara, eyes glittering playfully. “Your forehead is orange, you know.”

Kisara smiled apologetically. “I wasn’t expecting it to stain quite so much.”

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

“K-Ki…” She swallowed, blushing hard at the endearment. “Kisara.”

_“Kisara.”_ Malik rolled the word around his mouth as if sampling a fine wine. “Unusual…unique. I suppose you must be, too, to walk freely with our distinguished friend here.” Bakhure glared silently over the top of his beer.

“Who _are_ you?” Kisara seemed to be asking that a lot lately.

“Nobody special,” Malik shrugged. “I do, however, specialise in information. The tavern’s mine, yes, but what I gain from it pales in comparison to the value of secrets and whispers.” Malik leaned forward, toying with his hair as he indicated Bakhure with his free hand. “This one here…I’ve been on a little job for him recently, and I believe I have what he seeks.”

“Yeah?” Bakhure wiped his mouth on his sleeve, looking interested now. “Spill it then, pretty boy. I’m a busy man.”

Malik pulled a rolled-up sheet of papyrus from his _shenti._ While he arranged it flat on the table, Kisara took her first cautious sip of the beer he had given her. Sweet, almost overly so, but with a hint of rose and cardamom underneath and very pleasant on her tongue. It was rare she drank anything other than a plain brew.

Malik drew her attention then to the papyrus. “I’m no artist,” he said with a wry smile, “but I think what I’ve put together here should see our Bakhure to his goal –”

“For now,” Bakhure grunted, leaning over to peer closer at the wrinkled sheet. “A means to an end, nothing more.” The collection of sketches and symbols meant nothing to Kisara, as she had never learned to read, but it appeared Bakhure had, for there was comprehension in his silvery eyes as they flitted back and forth over the crude ink strokes. “Yes, this’ll work quite well.” He glanced up at Malik. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

Malik giggled and looked away, thumbing his lips. “You’re too kind.”

Kisara took another swallow of beer, more accustomed to its sweetness now. Whatever the two men had planned, she figured it best not to ask. There was much time left in the day, and Bakhure was forthcoming enough in his own time, from her short experience of him. It was more amusing to sit and watch the interaction before her. If the King of Thieves exuded confidence, it was nothing beside the charm and playfulness of Malik, and in fact the young man seemed to fluster Bakhure some, a first for Kisara.

“Are you going into town?” Malik asked Bakhure.

“Yeah,” came the reply. “Need a few things.”

“Then I’ll hold onto this for the time being –” Malik rolled up the papyrus again and tucked it back into his _shenti –_ “just in case, of course. Can’t have you being caught with such a valuable item.”

“As if I’d ever get caught,” Bakhure growled, looking rather affronted.

Malik reached over then, and tapped Bakhure’s wrist. “You know these things as well as I do,” Malik murmured.

“Alright, alright.” Bakhure moved his hand away and drained his beer, slamming the jar down when he was done. “Kisara, let’s go.”

“O-Oh, um, okay.” Kisara followed suit with her beer, though she was more gentle with her jar. “Thank you, Malik.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” Malik smiled at her. “I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.” Kisara’s brow furrowed as she looked to Bakhure, and Malik’s smile only grew. He got to his feet, shaking back his hair, and slipped back through the curtain to the brewing room.

* * *

The market was next. Sounds of trade talk, quick and emphatic, filtered through the air with heady smells of perfume and spices. Here and there an argument broke out as buyers attempted to haggle, the raised voices quickly giving way to the flash of bronze blades from the men that protected the caravans. Kisara drank it all in, weightless, blissful.

_This is…wonderful, so wonderful._ Kisara marvelled at the lack of suspicious eyes on her as they walked. Skin still pale as moonlight, but now with darkened hair and expensive jewellery, she might have looked more like a foreign noblewoman. Beside her, Bakhure blended into the crowd seamlessly, nary a trace of the aura that surrounded the King of Thieves in the usual sense. Never before had Kisara felt so comfortable in her own skin, able to travel freely without fear. The light buzz of alcohol helped.

“Here.” Bakhure slipped a soft, sticky object into Kisara’s hand. She looked down to see a plump cluster of dates nestled into her palm, then glanced back up at Bakhure questioningly. Bakhure merely winked at her as he pushed a few of his own into his mouth.

“Did you…?”

“Yep,” he grinned.

“That’s…” Kisara shook her head and brought a date to her lips, chewing slowly, “…incredible. I didn’t even see you take them.” The dates were delicious, sweet and moreish; she couldn’t help eating the lot with gluttonous abandon. “Do you ever purchase wares, or…?”

“Of course,” Bakhure snorted. “I’m not _that_ much of a delinquent.” He pointed with his free hand to a rotund, bearded vegetable seller. “Him there…I don’t steal from him. He was always good to me as a kid…so I pay him handsomely, and he keeps me well supplied. Never short of garlic now.”

“Your favourite?”

“Good for my chest.” He tapped his sternum to emphasise his point. “Breathing gets a little shaky when the air’s bad.” Kisara committed that to memory, making a mental note to remind herself of her mother’s skill with medicines when they returned to Kul Elna.

By the end of the market visit, Bakhure’s carrying sack bulged with wheat, lettuce, leeks, garlic, lentils, coriander, cumin, beer, and oils – some purchased, mostly not. Kisara observed the whole time, fascinated by the way Bakhure scoped out his next pilfering victim. Never once did he arouse suspicion, dressed as he was in the colours of wealth and finery, and his face betrayed nothing – no nerves, no smugness, nothing. It was like he’d been doing it his whole life. Perhaps he had.

Just as they were leaving, a trader called out to her, “Fair lady! Pray, come closer.” Kisara froze, looking around for Bakhure, ambling along a few paces behind. He was at her side a moment later, ever cautious, but now he seemed relaxed. “Go on,” he urged.

She approached the trader, a squat woman of middling age. “Y-Yes?”

“Fair lady,” the woman said, “your skin is too beautiful to be allowed to burn in our heat! You need protection, yes, and I have just the thing for you.” Behind her hung what looked to be an array of palm leaves, yet as she took a set down, Kisara realised the leaves were affixed to a linen base, onto which the woman attached a long handle made of reeds. “A parasol,” she explained, “to protect you from our divine’s endless fires. It would give me great pleasure to give you this as a gift, fair lady, so that others might see your finery. Will you take it?”

Kisara didn’t know what to say. This was a kindness that had never been shown her. So used to being driven away, ostracised, no gift had ever been given to her. If she opened her mouth to speak now, she might instead weep. It wasn’t until Bakhure gave her an impatient nudge that she regained her composure. “I-I…I am honoured,” she smiled. “In return, I shall tell all who ask where my gift came from.” The woman handed the parasol over; Kisara couldn’t help but twirl it admiringly. “Thank you so much.”

The woman bobbed her head. “Thank _you,_ fair lady.”

Kisara turned around to Bakhure, beaming, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile on his face as well. When he offered his arm, she took it without hesitation, holding her parasol proudly in her free hand.

They walked down towards the banks of the Nile, stopping to find shade and drink a little of the beer Bakhure had procured. Lighter stuff, meant for hydration, not intoxication. Kisara drank eagerly, her throat rather dry in the hot wind. A thought came back to her, a question on the tip of her tongue for hours. “Malik, is he like a work partner?” she asked. “You seem close.”

Bakhure laughed mockingly. “Fuck, no. Like I told you, he’s a pain in the ass. I work alone.” His eyes roved the ebb and flow of the Nile, back and forth between the men working along its banks. “I’ve known him a long time, though. Since we were children.”

“Oh?”

“I’d gotten caught cutting some rich fuck’s purse and needed someplace to hide out. Almost bowled the stupid kid over, but he saw the funny side, and hid me till they stopped looking for me.” He eased himself to the ground, crossing his legs. “We were partners for a while after that, but I do better by myself, and he…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. But he knows who I am, yeah, if that’s what you’re worried about. He won’t tell.”

_Your only friend,_ Kisara thought sadly, _and perhaps more than that as well._ She didn’t voice it aloud. “What of Kul Elna? Does he -?”

“No more than you do. I’d like to keep it that way.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

They sat together, passing the beer back and forth, until the sun began to sink lower, preparing for its nightly journey. Only then did Bakhure stand and stretch his limbs. “Come on. I need that damn map, and it’s getting late.”

By the time they reached the tavern again, Ra cast but a fiery glow just above the horizon. The building was empty now, save for Malik as he tidied up by lamplight. He glanced up with a small smile, looking tired, shadows from the flickering lamp dancing across his face. “All finished up for the day, my king?”

Bakhure grunted in affirmative. “Same here, I see.”

“Yes, thankfully, so I can close up now.” Malik moved to the single window and shuttered it; the light in the room dropped considerably. He turned to them, running a hand through his hair. “Why don’t you stay the night? It’s safer for you to travel back in the morning. Anat’s in the stables, I take it? She’ll be fine there.” He flashed Kisara a smile. “You too, of course. Plenty of room for both of you here.”

Bakhure scoffed. “As if a little late-night desert wandering ever did me harm.” He folded his arms, but Malik just raised an eyebrow at him silently, and he dropped them again after a few moments. “Fine, fine, we’ll stay. _One_ night.”

Malik clapped his hands together, beaming. “I’ll make it worth your while. Kisara, honey, you take the room beside the stairs and make yourself at home, alright?”

Kisara fought the urge to giggle.

* * *

Later, when Kisara awoke from sleep, a strong urge to see the night sky gripped her. Perhaps it was that the last few weeks of having a roof over her head awoke her desire to spend the night as she used to, below the stars with the wind in her hair and sand between her toes. She wouldn’t go far, just outside the tavern. If Bakhure came looking for her, it was best to stay close…although, judging by the quiet sighs and moans coming from the next room, he would be otherwise occupied for a while.

She rose from her bed and pulled her dress back on, leaving her sandals behind. Soft a whisper she slipped out of the room and down the stairs, making for the curtain that separated her from the outside world.


	4. Chapter 4

Their bodies moved together like waves breaking on the shore, soft and gentle…uncharacteristically so, Bakhure might have thought, if he had the capacity to think of anything else in the present moment. Malik was inside him, slender hips rocking into Bakhure’s broader body with practiced ease, huffs of breath and moans of delight muffled by their questing tongues in each other’s mouths. Somehow they had managed to roll away from the bed before the main act, but it didn’t matter. He felt too good for it to matter.

Malik pulled his mouth away and began nipping down Bakhure’s neck, coaxing a deep sigh from the thief. His hands wandered into Malik’s hair, tugging lightly. “You little brat, don’t you –  _ ah _ – dare slow down now.”

“I don’t plan on it.” Malik lifted his face, eyes sparkling in the gloom. His mouth found Bakhure’s again as Bakhure wrapped his thighs round Malik’s waist, using the leverage to roll his hips into every other thrust. The change in pace forced a halting groan from Malik, the man burying his face in Bakhure’s hair now. “Gods above, you’re so tight, my king.”

A heated flush burned Bakhure’s cheeks at the pet name, grateful it was too dark for Malik to see. His fingers scrambled over Malik’s back muscles, holding on firmly while his pleasure began to build towards fever pitch. A little more…he could feel the intense pressure in his belly now, tight and demanding, unyielding…he pulled one hand away and jammed it between their heaving bodies, grabbing his shaft and –

Malik stopped.

“Son of a fuck! What the hell are you doing?”

The brat pulled out, giggling. “Just changing things up a little. Turn on your side, honey.” Bakhure did so, grumbling under his breath. “That’s it…” Malik situated behind the thief and lifted up his top leg to place the foot on his hip, spreading Bakhure out. After a moment he pushed back inside, and reached a hand round to pick up where Bakhure left off.

“Oh, fuck…” Bakhure leaned his head back against Malik's shoulder, groaning in bliss. The position was oddly intimate, one he would never have broached trying himself, but he was quickly finding out that he liked it. The new angle had the head of Malik's cock pressing up into his sweet spot with every thrust, making the thief see stars behind his closed eyelids as he quivered and tried in vain to thrust up into the fingers drawing divine  _ heka  _ up and down his shaft. He was close again, so close, close enough to beg for it.

"Malik! Please, gods, please!" 

Malik kissed his neck, humming. "Okay, honey." He readjusted his angle, drew Bakhure closer, and began to thrust a little harder, a little faster. "How's - that?  _ Fuck." _

Bakhure could only call out in ecstasy, incapable of words now. The change in pace was all he needed to reach his peak, come flooding across his belly like the Nile bursting its banks. Barely a minute later, Malik shivered against him and spilled his seed inside, warm and gratifying.

Satisfied, they lay there a moment, catching their breaths. With the passion having left now, Bakhure became aware of the hard and dusty floor pressing uncomfortably into his hip, and shoved himself upright onto his knees to rub the sore spot. Malik sat up too, ever-present smile lingering. "I'll clean us up, okay?"

"Mm." Bakhure hummed in agreement. Malik got to his feet, tied his  _ shenti  _ round his waist, and left the room. When he returned he had a damp cloth in his hand and a dry one over his shoulder. He knelt in front of Bakhure to mop his belly. 

"Thanks, Malik."

"You're welcome." Malik looked up. "Can't remember the last time you stayed a whole night."

Bakhure shrugged as Malik dried him off. "Safer that way."

"Idiot, you know I can take care of myself."

"I wish you didn't have to, though. You should have come back with me long ago."

"Yeah, but...I always wanted to stay close by. Turn around, honey." Bakhure did as he was bid. "You know all this, anyway. What's changed?"

"Nothing's changed."

"You're a bad liar, my king. What about the girl? Kisara." Malik tossed the cloth aside and moved to the bed, dropping his  _ shenti  _ to the ground again. "She's too meek for your liking, and you always work alone, so what's changed?"

Bakhure followed him to the bed. They settled in amongst the blankets, Malik giving a gentle sigh when Bakhure nestled his head in the crook of his neck.

"She’s…she’s like me,” he said. “The last of a village, and we’ve the same hair – I made her put henna on it this morning to disguise it. When it washes out, we’ll show you...her hair is like moonlight itself, as much as yours is like the light of the sun.” 

It wasn’t really much of an explanation, but it was what came to Bakhure first – Kisara’s tragic past, and the radiance that was her beauty. “Kisara’s shy at first,” he continued, “but she won’t take any of my shit, so you’re wrong about her being meek. No, there’s something within her…primal and powerful. I don’t know what it is, but…” Bakhure nuzzled his nose behind Malik’s ear, his hair tickling his skin, “it’s been…pleasant…to have her here as of late.”

Malik snorted. “You want her.”

“Whatever you say, Malik."

“So, what? She’s here because you think she’s pretty?”

“No, asshole. She’s here because she insisted on tagging along and I humoured her for my own amusement.” He looked up, smirking. "Why? Jealous?"

"As if. I don't own you," Malik quipped, "and blessings be to Ra that I don't, since you've zero manners and you hog all my blankets, you damn thief."

Bakhure laughed, boisterous and merry. Once he finished wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, he asked, "When did you last see him? Your little lover at the palace?"

Malik's expression turned wistful. "When the river last flooded." That was at least half a year ago. "We send messages, but...it's not the same."

Bakhure lifted his head, so he could look into the young man's eyes. They rarely kissed outside of sex, but Malik looked sad, and Bakhure couldn't help pecking his lips in the hope of coaxing a smile out of him. It worked for a few seconds. "When we go into the palace...if I see him, I'll tell him you're waiting."

Malik kissed him again, lingering. "I'd really appreciate that." With a sigh, he settled down again. "I'm glad that you've found a friend, or, well, whatever she is." 

He wouldn't admit it to Malik, not yet, but he had wondered, sometimes, when the wine clouded his mind...no, drunken fantasies, he figured, but fantasies that sent a little shiver up his spine nonetheless. "You're my friend too," Bakhure pointed out, "even if you are a colossal pain in my ass."

Malik chuckled. "Glad to serve you, my king. Now…" Swiftly he rolled atop Bakhure and nipped his bottom lip. "I'm ready to go again if you are."

* * *

One advantage of spending the night with Malik was the dreamless sleep that usually followed. It made a nice change for his unconscious moments to be foggy and dull, instead of the sear of crackling flames and charring flesh. 

A prod in his shoulder disturbed his slumber. 

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

"Ugh…" Determined to ignore his surroundings, Bakhure turned his face away and yanked a blanket over his head. The prodding didn't go away. No doubt Malik was needling him to wake up for another round. When the blanket was pulled away and a tiny hand ruffled his hair, Bakhure growled and snapped, "What the  _ hell  _ do you want?"

"Malik is making breakfast." It was Kisara, and  _ breakfast  _ caught Bakhure's attention. His head lifted, blinking his sleepy eyes slowly. Kisara laughed at him. Her hair was damp and tied back, her skin flushed pink from what looked like a good scrubbing. "Ah, there you are. Good morning, my king!"

The corner of Bakhure's mouth twitched. "Alright, I'm getting up..." He pushed himself onto his knees, wincing. They'd been delightfully busy through the night, and his body felt sore in the most pleasant of ways. "Your hair is paler already," he yawned.

"I washed it just now."

"Hm. Guess you need a wig after all." The paler shade did look nice, though. Suited her more. "Pass me my clothes, would you?" 

Kisara handed over his  _ shenti _ and head covering. She extended a hand to him once he had dressed, his dark fingers slipped into her pale ones as he got to his feet. Together they headed downstairs, and Bakhure sniffed the air with a pleased grin. “The brown-nosing little brat. He’s never made breakfast before.”

Just outside the tavern, Malik looked up from the fire as Kisara and Bakhure approached. “The king and his consort have arrived,” he smirked. “Did you sleep well, my king?”

“Well enough,” Bakhure shrugged. “The hell are you doing making food? I don’t think I’ve seen you eat in years.” The fire perturbed him; he sat as far from it as was practical.

“Well, I’m a busy man these days, I’m sure you understand. Doesn’t often leave much room for sustenance…but I don’t need to open up the tavern yet, and my hens had a good number of eggs, so…” Malik turned away a moment to prod at whatever was sizzling away in the fire. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bakhure waved a hand. “You don’t need to explain yourself.” Kisara hid a smile behind her own hands, the skin crinkling around her eyes.

There was bread from the market, and pomegranates, eggs with deliciously runny yolks, fish from the river, and of course plenty of beer. Malik showed Kisara how to burst her egg yolk and smear it over the bread, letting the wheaten chunk soak up the bright orange ooze to soften its toughness. He was cordial enough with her, and she appeared to have found a little confidence, as they were soon having a full conversation about everything and nothing.

After their talk dried up, Malik turned to Bakhure. “So…” Malik wiped a speckling of breadcrumbs from his lips, “I promised you some info, didn’t I? More than an old scribbling, at any rate.”

Bakhure looked up, his mouth full. “Hm?” He swallowed and nodded. “Oh, yes. Go on, then – what have you heard?”

“More like what I’ve seen  _ and  _ heard.” Malik leaned closer, dropping his voice. “The Medjay are on the move, and the palace is abuzz with excitement. Seems the young Pharaoh is taking a little trip outside the city, so much of his security will be tied up with keeping him safe. Meaning…”

“The palace will be relatively unguarded.” Bakhure’s face became a mask of glee. 

“Exactly.”

“When?”

“Three days from now.”

“You’re certain?”

“Have I ever steered you wrong, honey?"

Kisara looked between the two men, puzzled. “What is this all about?” she asked.

“It’s time to prove yourself to me, Kisara.” Bakhure took a long gulp of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The blaze in his eyes rivalled that of their small fire; he saw his own determination reflecting in her opalescent gaze. “I’m storming the royal palace whilst the Pharaoh is away…and you’re going to help me do it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Ra sank below the horizon as Atum, as the night before the break-in drew ever closer. The ghosts had been more active lately, their whispers louder. Perhaps they were uneasy, too.

A peculiar sensation gnawed at Kisara’s stomach, one she might have mistaken for hunger had she not known what she was expected to do. As she pored over Malik’s crude papyrus map, she shook her head. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Bakhure’s face was stoic, impassive, as he beheld her. “You can, and you will,” he replied simply. Kisara heard the veiled threat in his voice, how fine the rope was that her life balanced upon, in being privy to the thief’s life, to access his sanctuary. “I’m asking a lot of you, I know, but you pledged yourself to me, and I would see that put to use. In any case…” He leaned back on one elbow, eyes fixed on the sky above them, “we won’t be alone.”

Kisara blinked. “Will Malik accompany us?”

“Oh, heavens, no. He’s too prissy to get his hands dirty.” Bakhure drew in the dust below them with his free hand. “I suppose it’s time you…”

He stood then, stretching his arms out, then made for the broken doorway of the house, gesturing for Kisara to follow; she did, albeit with much scrambling and tripping over her own feet. She stayed close behind Bakhure, allowing him to lead her to a wide, empty area on the outskirts of Kul Elna, away from what remained of the buildings. There the King of Thieves stopped, a lone figure against a backdrop of desolate sand, the persisting life in the village of the dead.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet, Kisara,” he said. “My partner in crime, you could say! He has never failed me, nor steered me wrong. My hope is that you can come to trust him in this, too.” The warm wind gusted a few locks of hair in front of his face, which he brushed away. “So?”

Kisara just tilted her head to the side, hands clasped in front of her. “I don’t see anybody else.”

“What would you say, if I told you he had been here this whole time?”

“I don’t understa – _o-oh!”_ A brilliant white shape curled around Kisara, obscuring her vision, and she gave a squeak of surprise and fear. “B-Bakhure!” she cried. “What is happening?!”

Bakhure laughed from somewhere further away than she thought – he must have moved. “Calm down, you’re not in any danger. Diabound!”

The dazzling whiteness faded, and Kisara blinked rapidly before rubbing her eyes, hardly daring to look up. When she did, the face of a stern and solemn figure gazed down at her. Its body was white as goat’s milk and tall as a sphinx, its lower half tapered into an imposing, snake-like projection, whilst its face and torso resembled that of a human, but for the horns atop its head.

“What do you think?” Bakhure stepped beside Diabound and held out his hand; Kisara gasped to see that the serpentine tail had a head of its own, as it lifted upright and settled its chin onto Bakhure’s open palm. She felt her mouth opening, but no words came out, and Bakhure’s cheeks brightened in an amused grin. “I had much the same reaction the first time I saw him. Don’t worry, it’ll pass.”

“W-What…what _is_ it…?” Kisara whispered.

“He’s my _ka.”_ Bakhure scratched the top of the snake’s head with his free hand. “You _do_ know what makes up our souls, don’t you?” Kisara nodded; of course she knew that, didn’t everybody? “The priests maintain that the _ka_ serves as our double,” Bakhure continued, “the part of us that still needs food and drink when we die…but what they don’t tell the masses is that they can also be summoned to help us in times of need. Take Diabound here, for example…I don’t know how he does it, but he is able to propel air with his tail at high speed, and use it to attack. He’s able to fly, as you can see, and he can carry me or other objects wherever needed.” As if to demonstrate, Diabound extended a massive hand, and Bakhure hopped onto it, scampering up the muscled arm to sit on Diabound’s shoulder. “Finally – and this is what we’re going to rely on most whilst in the palace – Diabound can conceal my whereabouts so that I’m completely undetectable. It’ll work for you, too, so long as you stay near us.”

So that meant even if Kisara’s nerve were to falter, and she ran, the invisibility would not extend to her, and she could be spotted, captured, even killed. Bakhure kept his usual easy smile on his face as he relayed Diabound’s abilities, but within his words Kisara heard the hidden message – _no backing out on your word. I can’t guarantee your safety if you do._

“Could I summon my own _ka?”_ Kisara asked.

“I don’t doubt your ability to do it,” Bakhure replied from his lofty perch, “but it takes a while to learn how. It would take too long for me to train you and I don’t have the time to waste.”

Kisara huffed. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll train myself. I’m not a useless damsel who needs your help all the time.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you collapse out in the desert.” Bakhure jumped down from Diabound and waved his hand; the _ka_ vanished a moment later, and Bakhure regarded Kisara with his pale, luminescent eyes. “Fine,” he growled. “Give me your hands.” She did so, her tiny hands almost obscured by his larger ones. “Close your eyes…clear your mind…and now, you search within for the extension of your physical form.”

“How will I know?” Kisara whispered.

“You’ll know. Trust me.”

Kisara obeyed as best she could. With no concept of any power she might hold, all that swam around her thoughts were feelings familiar to her, nothing that might denote something she could summon to fight for her. Once or twice, she thought she brushed against a dormant object, but try as she might, she could not focus long enough to draw anything out. Weariness tugged at her, threatening to engulf her in exhaustion.

“Keep going.” Bakhure’s voice sounded soft, almost breathless.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re doing well. Don’t stop.”

She tried again. This time she pushed past the barrier of fatigue with determination. A flash of silver-blue stabbed into her thoughts, and she recoiled with a grunt; only Bakhure’s grip on her hands kept her from tumbling. The sensation was alien, yet somehow familiar, and frightening. Had Bakhure felt it, too? She had felt him shudder, if only briefly.

Emboldened, she reached out a second time, to capture the power brushing against her mind – only for it to slip through her grasp once more.

“Again,” Bakhure ordered.

Like a cat chasing after a mouse, Kisara darted to and fro, capturing the mysterious power after only a few minutes. The resulting roar of wind that filled her ears almost knocked her sideways and she let go quickly.

“Again.”

Bakhure had Kisara practising for hours. By the time she slumped forwards and into his arms, night had fallen on Kemet as Ra’s battle with Apep commenced. “I can’t do it,” Kisara whispered.

“You can’t _now._ But another time…who’s to say?” Bakhure grasped her chin, not roughly, and turned her face upwards to look at him. Through her exhaustion, Kisara felt his gaze burning into hers, their faces mere inches apart. “There is fire in your eyes…” Bakhure murmured, “and I would not see the flames extinguished so soon. I felt the strength within you. Continue to seek it out, and remain by my side – don’t falter in this.”

“Don’t…don’t rely too much on me, will you?” Kisara managed a shaky smile as she raised both her hands to cup Bakhure’s cheeks, feeling the roughness of his scar against her left palm. “I’ll do my best, though.”

“I would not expect anything else of you.”

“Thank you.” Kisara kissed the tip of Bakhure’s nose, feeling it wrinkle in surprise beneath her lips. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

The thief gave no verbal response, but the smile he gave – true and genuine, the first she had seen beneath the sarcasm and sorrow – said more than words ever could have.


	6. Chapter 6

"Don't strain yourself so!"

Kisara puffed out her cheeks and scowled. "I'm not."

"You look like you're about to crap yourself, girl." Bakhure tossed back his head as he laughed.

He had found Kisara settled cross-legged by Anat's stable, face screwed up in intense concentration. Ever since being shown the first step in summoning _ka,_ Kisara had been practicing non-stop. All she had produced were a few frustrated growls, but Bakhure had to admire her determination. "You can stop now, anyway," he told her, as he sidestepped Kisara to enter the stable. "It's time."

"So soon?" Kisara asked.

"Doesn't time fly when you have fun?"

The corner of Kisara's mouth twitched. "You're an ass, you know that?"

"Tell me something I don't know." Bakhure busied himself with gathering Anat's saddlebags.

"What are you hoping to take from the palace, anyway?"

"Now _that,"_ Bakhure grinned, tapping the side of his nose, "is a close-guarded secret."

"How can I help you if I don't even know what to look for?"

"Relax, you will be with me the whole time. Diabound, remember? I'll lead the way."

Kisara sighed. "Of course."

"Go fetch anything you need, then meet me back here. Quickly now - I want to get in there fast as I can." Bakhure looked up to see Kisara nod and set off for the tiny house she had claimed for herself. His eyes lingered overlong on how her dress clung to her body as the warm wind blew the fabric around. Her form dipped and curved in ways Malik’s didn’t, and it fascinated him.

_Dammit, I'm getting distracted here._ Bakhure huffed to himself and stomped out of the stable, heading to his own house in search of a cloth to hide his hair. Once suitably covered, he left, but bumped into Kisara on the way out; he grabbed her shoulders to steady themselves from stumbling. She flashed him a small smile, one he returned after a moment. She had outlined her eyes with kohl and tied up her hair, then covered it much as Bakhure had done. A linen shawl rested on her shoulders, protecting her delicate skin from the harsh fires of Ra, and she had her palm leaf parasol over one shoulder. "I'm ready," she said. "Well, as ready as I'll ever be."

“Good.” A wisp of silver hung soft and wavy next to Kisara’s cheek, a stray lock the henna hadn’t touched. Bakhure reached out to tuck it behind her ear, concealing it from view. “You go in front this time, alright?”

“O-Oh…why?”

Bakhure shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to see how you handle Anat yourself.”

“Ah!” Kisara seemed to relax a little. “Well…that sounds nice, actually. She’s such a sweet thing.”

“She likes you.” They started off towards the stable together. “She bit Malik the first time he tried to stroke her nose, you know.” Bakhure chuckled at the memory, and Kisara pressed a hand to her mouth as she giggled. “His wrist was swollen and bruised for weeks afterwards. Couldn’t stop laughing at him.”

“Why did she bite him?”

“Who knows? Women are fickle things.”

“Excuse me.”

“You are excused.” Kisara gave Bakhure a small shove, and he laughed, throwing an arm round her shoulders and squeezing her to his side. The playfulness helped…it helped soothe the knotted tension building in his gut, the anticipation of their little heist weighing heavily on his nerves, more than he cared to admit.

They gave Anat time to quaff down some water – Bakhure had packed food for her in the saddlebags – then Kisara swung herself up into the saddle, and Bakhure clambered up behind her. The change in position threw him off straight away, unsure of what to do when not in charge of directing his horse. As Kisara adjusted herself and gripped the reins, ready to depart, Bakhure wrapped an arm round her waist to anchor himself. He felt Kisara stiffen against him for a moment before relaxing, then with a short squeeze of Anat’s sides and a snap on the reins, the journey towards Waset began.

Unused to Kisara being at the head of the controls, Anat occasionally strayed from their intended path when Kisara failed to direct her accordingly, but Bakhure murmured a few words, and eventually Anat had them back on the bare and dusty road leading to the holy city.

“The Pharaoh is probably visiting a tomb or temple if he’s going outside the city walls,” Bakhure spoke up over the soft _clip-clop_ of Anat’s hooves. “I doubt he will go far, though. We will need to move fast once inside the palace.”

Kisara glanced over her shoulder. “Have you…been inside before?”

“Only once, and not of my own free will.”

“Imprisoned?”

“A while ago now, back when old Akhenamkhanen was on the throne.” The previous Pharaoh had passed away several cycles of the Nile ago, leaving his son, just a boy at the time, to take his place. Bakhure didn’t know the boy’s name, or his face – the Pharaoh rarely made an appearance amongst the common folk. Akhenamkhanen, at least, lacked arrogance enough to acknowledge peasants and nobles alike existed beneath his high and mighty perch.

They rode in silence for a time, Ra’s fire rising higher in the sky till the backs of their heads burned from the heat. Then Kisara asked, “Would they really leave the palace unguarded?”

“Not entirely,” Bakhure replied, “but there certainly won’t be as many in number.”

“Why do I feel like that isn’t much encouragement?” Kisara muttered.

“Just stay close to me, and don’t fuck this up for us.” Bakhure rested his chin atop Kisara’s shoulder, as she herself often did when she rode behind him, and closed his eyes, relaxing amidst midday sun and the scent of frankincense on Kisara’s skin.

* * *

They left Anat at the usual stable. The slave boy who looked after her was looking a little thin and tired, compared to his usual bright demeanour. Bakhure couldn’t help but slip him a few dates from Anat’s saddlebags, remembering how much pain an empty stomach could bring, how civil unrest could affect everybody from the upper-class to the very dregs of society. Kisara took his arm then; perhaps she had sensed the disquiet lodged in his throat. He shook her off, turned his back to the stable, and gestured for her to follow him down a narrow alleyway. “So, what next?” she asked, once she had caught up. Her parasol shadowed her face, but her voice spoke not of fear.

Bakhure turned his face upwards, over the tops of the low mud huts that sat in an unorganised sprawl on the city outskirts. He could see the upper walkways of the palace, and the tips of the paired obelisks that no doubt led to the on-site temple the Pharaoh was responsible for. “We approach the palace, under cover of Diabound,” he said quietly, “and there we watch, and listen. Once we are certain the Pharaoh and his entourage are not within the city walls, we can enter. I won’t risk going in if the little brat is still hanging about.”

“How close do we get?”

“Most people would not be able to approach the main gates without a granted audience. With the Pharaoh absent, it’s likely none will be admitted, bar staff, nobles, and their slaves.” Bakhure adjusted his head covering, making sure nothing of his hair showed, and Kisara nodded to indicate it was fine. “I just hope we won’t have to wait long for someone to be admitted – because that will be our chance to sneak in.”

“What, no climbing over walls or hidden entrances behind a bush?” Kisara laughed.

“If only life were so simple, moonbeam.” Bakhure looked back towards what he could see of the palace. _I will be happy if we come away from this with nothing but the faces of those who bear the souls of my people. Anything else is a welcome boon. I can act later…later, once I know for sure how to proceed._

Kisara brushed down the plain linen of her dress, adorned with the belt she had sewn. “Well…I suppose we had best make our way there.”

“Yes,” Bakhure agreed. “Stay close. I will tell you when Diabound is concealing us.”

She sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

_Fuck, you’ve changed._ Bakhure stared at Kisara’s retreating back with approval and a smug smirk to match. Practically gone was the shy and shivering maiden that clung to him in the desert, begging for him to take her away. Now Kisara could answer most every of his quips with one of her own, and he wondered what had happened to have given her such new-found confidence. Chuckling, he strolled off after her, now somewhat looking forward to their little raid on the Pharaoh’s blessed property. He caught up, and Kisara took his arm again, the better to remain by his side, but it also drew curious eyes away from her milk-white skin and her appearance of being alone. They would be safer if they didn’t create a suspicious image to the city folk.

“Just up here,” Bakhure murmured, indicating a street to their left. He nodded to a passing vagrant, a momentary lapse in his guise, but still his ears and eyes remained open, ever observant.

_“…Yes, we were all down by the gate to watch – did you see - ?”_

Bakhure tilted his head ever so slightly, in the direction of the two middle-aged women walking down the street, carrying baskets of various foodstuffs. “Kisara,” he whispered, and immediately, she was listening in too.

_“I could not, but my daughter was there, and she says the procession was wonderful!”_

_“The_ colour _on the drapes over the litter! I could tell they had been freshly dyed.”_

_“What colour?”_

_“Indigo, of course.”_

Bakhure smiled. “That’s our cue.”

Kisara’s grip on his arm tightened a little as they turned into another alleyway, looking as though they wished to take a shortcut to their destination. Once safely concealed from view, Bakhure reached into the recesses of his mind, locating the link between himself and Diabound. In years past, that link had felt little more than a spool of thread; now it was strong as steel, never bending. Diabound emerged into the world already covering the partner of his life, and his companion, in a cloaking aura, hiding them from sight. Bakhure nodded to Kisara. “We’re concealed now. Keep your voice down as we walk – I can’t silence our tongues.”

“How long can you keep this up for?” Kisara whispered urgently as they hurried out of the alleyway and turned once more towards the direction of the palace.

“Longer than you’re worrying about. Keep moving already.”

The gates leading into the massive courtyard of the palace were closed and barred by a pair of spear-wielding soldiers. As Bakhure and Kisara approached on cautious feet, the doors glided open on oiled hinges, and the soldiers stood a little straighter. Two men emerged and began walking towards the markets. Both were garbed in long, plain linen robes, and the shorter of the two wore a blue hat inlaid with gold, and covered his face with a veil so only his eyes were visible. The taller man sported a bald head and tattoo markings across his brow, and gold bracelets adorned his wrists. Tied to his belt was a key.

_No, that’s - !_ Bakhure narrowed his eyes, a low growl escaping his throat. A sickening mix of anger and sorrow flared within him, the edges of his vision going red with rage.

“Bakhure…?” Kisara was watching him with concern written on her delicate features.

_So he is one, and the Pharaoh holds another. There are five more._ Bakhure took a deep breath, composed himself as best he could, then gestured to the two men. “The short-ass is Vizier to the Pharaoh. He does everything the little brat is too lazy to do himself. The one next to him, I’d wager, is one of the Vizier’s underlings, though he could be a priest as well.” _Holding one of the Items, I would be surprised if he isn’t. Dammit, I wish Malik had given me_ names!

Kisara nodded. “We should probably get through the gate before it closes.”

“Shit!” Bakhure grabbed Kisara’s wrist and ran towards the gates, slipping between the guards and managing to cross the threshold mere moments before a resounding _bang_ behind them shut them off from the city grounds. Bakhure rubbed his chest, his breath coming out in rasping curses. Thankfully, the courtyard was otherwise deserted, so nobody would overhear the disturbance; however, Kisara continued to eye him with a worried look, and he swatted at her, scowling. “I’m fine, stop staring at me like that.”

She huffed and turned away. “When we get back, I will make another batch of tonic for your chest.”

“That awful stuff? Fuck, no.” Bakhure shuddered, remembering the vile bitterness of the last batch of sludge potion Kisara had made him drink.

“I’ll put extra garlic in it for you.”

“…Fine, I guess I’ll suffer through it just this once.” Bakhure straightened, his lungs no longer in danger of exploding, and exhaled a full breath before beginning to stride towards the palace. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

“For you to stop breathing like a man on his deathbed!” Kisara yelled as she hurried after him.

**Author's Note:**

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